Lights out, and Scarpetta carries the unit by its handle and slowly sweeps the blue light over walls, shelving and the floor. Blood and other substances that react to luminol don’t necessarily react to an alternate light source, and the areas that luminesced earlier are dark. But several small smears on the floor pop up a bright, hot red. Lights on, and Lucy positions the tripod again and places an orange filter over the camera lens. Lights out, and she photographs the fluorescing red smears. Lights back on, and the smears are barely visible. They are nothing more than a dirty discoloration of a dirty, discolored floor, but under magnification, Scarpetta detects a very faint blush of red. Whatever the substance is, it doesn’t dissolve in sterile water, and she doesn’t want to use a solvent and run the risk of destroying whatever it is.

“We need to get a sample.” Scarpetta studies the concrete.

“I’ll be right back.”

Lucy opens the door and calls out for Larry. He is behind the counter again, talking on the phone, and when he looks up and sees her from head to toe in white plasticized paper, he is visibly startled.

“Did someone just beam me to the Mir space station?” he says.

“You got any tools around this joint so I don’t have to go out to the car?”

“There’s a small toolbox in back. Up on the shelf against the wall.” He indicates which wall. “A small, red toolbox.”

“I may have to mess up your floor. Just a little.”

He starts to say something but changes his mind, shrugs, and she shuts the door. She retrieves a hammer and a screwdriver from the tool box, and with a few blows, chips out small samples of the dirty red stains and seals them inside evidence bags.

She and Scarpetta remove their white clothing and stuff it into a trash can. They pack up their equipment and leave.

Why are you doing this?” Ev asks the same question she asks every time he comes in, asks it hoarsely as he points the light and it shoots through her eyes like knives. “Please get that light out of my face.”

“You’re the ugliest fat pig I’ve ever seen,” he says. “No wonder nobody likes you.”

“Words can’t hurt me. You can’t hurt me. I belong to God.”

“Look at you. Who would have you. You’re thankful I pay attention to you, aren’t you.”

“Where are the others?”

“Say you’re sorry. You know what you did. Sinners must be punished.”

“What have you done with them?” She asks the same question she always does. “Let me go. God will forgive you.”

“Say you’re sorry.”

He nudges her ankles with his boots and the pain is horrific.

“Dear God, forgive him,” she prays out loud. “You don’t want to go to hell,” she says to him, the evil one. “It’s not too late.”